Frequency

The microwave is counting down in green,

four seconds left on a frozen burrito,

when the air outside splits into a warble.

It isn't the long, low groan of the fire truck

or the frantic chirping of a precinct cruiser.

It’s a high, electronic scream that doesn't resolve,

an urgent, anonymous pitch that makes the dogs howl

three houses down.

The blue strobe light slices through the blinds,

painting stripes on the kitchen floor for a heartbeat.

Then the sound drags itself around the corner,

leaving the hum of the fridge and the beep

telling me that my dinner is ready.